Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [25]
He had almost got back to his desk on the third floor when he felt his phone vibrating in the back pocket of his jeans. Seeing that it was his wife, he hit the receive button.
‘Hi.’
‘John. You have to get to the school.’ Helen’s tone was verging on fraught.
‘There’s been a bomb scare . . .’
NINE
By the time he got to the Barbican, the place looked like a scene out of some straight-to-video cop movie. The whole arts complex surrounding the school had been cordoned off. Outside the tape, tourists and office workers mingled, sharing a mixture of concern and curiosity, while resisting the best attempts of a dozen or so uniformed officers to move them along. As he approached the Silk Street entrance, Carlyle counted more than a dozen police vehicles, including two large Bomb Squad vans. He wondered how long it would take them to search the entire site – several hours at least. There would certainly be no more chance of school today. He pulled up Alice’s number on his mobile, and cursed when he got a ‘network busy’ message.
‘Fuck!’
Ending the call, he redialled immediately. And got the same message.
‘Bastard fucking phone!’
And again.
And again.
At the fifth or six attempt, he got through. After barely two rings, his daughter’s voicemail kicked in. Hi! This is Alice. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Bye!
‘Alice,’ he said as calmly as he could manage, ‘it’s Dad. Call me when you get this.’
Keeping the phone in his hand, he walked up to a sergeant standing by the police tape. Flashing his ID, he got a nod of recognition.
‘Where are the schoolkids?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Gone to the RV points, sir,’ the sergeant said in a practised manner.
‘And where are the RV points?’
‘Er . . .’ The officer shrugged.
Carlyle was just about to slap him, when they were interrupted by a middle-aged woman with a clipboard. ‘Which class?’ she asked Carlyle briskly.
‘Er . . .’ Now it was Carlyle’s turn to show his ignorance.
The woman hid her frown behind her clipboard. ‘Teacher?’
‘A man, I think,’ was as much as Carlyle could manage.
This time the woman made no attempt to hide her contempt for his ignorance.
Summoning up the patience of a saint, she gave him one last try. ‘Upper or Lower school?’
‘Lower,’ Carlyle said decisively. He knew he had to have a fifty-fifty chance of being right on that one at least.
‘They will have gone to Monkwell Square.’
Carlyle looked at her blankly.
‘It’s just next to the Ironmongers’ Hall,’ the woman said.
‘Just back the way you came, sir,’ the sergeant said helpfully. ‘Head towards St Paul’s – it’s just before you get to London Wall. Should only take you about five minutes, maximum.’
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle replied through gritted teeth. Turning on his heels, he headed at a trot back through the gawkers and the randomly parked police cars.
It took him only a couple of minutes to find the Square. The place was full of girls in uniform gossiping in small groups, lounging about on the grass and generally looking quite pleased at the prospect of the afternoon off. Quite a few were smoking and he was shocked to see one girl, who looked to be even younger than Alice, taking a casual drag on a cigarette as she sat under a tree. How would he react if he found his own daughter smoking? He would cross that bridge if and when he came to it.
First he had to find her. It took him another few minutes to locate someone who looked like a teacher – a tall man in a suit, also brandishing a clipboard. Careful not to tread on any of the pupils, Carlyle stepped forward and introduced himself.
The man nodded. ‘John Doherty,